


Progress, Risotto, Asado [Ask Dean]

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [126]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Food, Food Porn, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Sam Winchester, Growing Old Together, Grumpy Dean Winchester, M/M, Married Couple, Medical Conditions, Old Married Couple, Post-Series, Recovery, Slice of Life, Topping from the Bottom, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, ask Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 01:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: A series of Ask Dean Q&A. In this installment, Dean answers (or attempts to answer) questions about Sam's recovery, Dean's favorite meal for Sam to make, and how Dean copes with bad knee days.





	Progress, Risotto, Asado [Ask Dean]

****

 

**Hi Dean! How is Sam doing in regards to his stroke recovery? I think about him a lot. Also, any thoughts on getting another pet?**

Launching right into getting me in trouble, huh? Okay, then. Here we go.

So there's talk between Sam and the god awful people at physical therapy about the benefits of having a service dog. Yeah, yeah, I know--get with the god damn program, Dean. Every chance they get, the PT people pull me aside and tell me that they know a place that provides service dogs and whatever.

It came up in my research for fuck's sake, I know about it.

I just. Look. I don't really like dogs. For a ton of reasons aside from the very obvious as hell one. There's a ton of shit I'm over, yeah? Or as my therapist likes to put it: there's a ton of trauma I've processed and buried. Ha. Like a fucking pro.

But this one. This fucking one.

For now, the PT people bring in a therapy dog and incorporate it into Sam's appointment. I think the dog's name is Max. Might be a Golden. There's also this program at the Harold Washington in the Loop that Sam and Walter go to twice a month. The library brings service and therapy dogs for people to read stories to or just be with. Sam's motor skills need some work, so he brushes the dogs and lets them slobber all over him. It's cute. Walter sends me pictures.

So. Recovery-wise. Steady. Good days and bad days. I still can't get him into sit on the couch and talk about your feelings therapy, but that's okay. If you'd asked me to sit on a couch and talk about my feelings to a stranger and then pay them for the privilege of it just a few years ago, I'd have laughed in your face. Okay, maybe not in your face, but I would have definitely laughed.

I guess progress is where you find it. Sam doesn't fight me on going to PT so much because of the dog therapy. They're set to start water therapy soon, also with a dog, which I think holy fuck, these dogs are way more Lassie than Scooby. Sometimes I worry Sam will come home with a dog and kick my ass out.

Okay. Not really. Not much.

I like cats better. They're handy to have in case any Egyptian mummies come back from the dead and try to kick Brendan Fraser's ass.

But seeing as I have enough on my plate without also adding kitty litter and hairballs, I'm not gunning for another pet anytime soon. Kevin sends me pictures and videos of Cat anyway. Talk about queen of the bunker.

I'm not saying never. Just not now.

-DW

 

 

**Hey Dean, we all know you are the kitchen king in the Winchester household, but is there special dish that Sam makes for you? That you will eat no matter what, even charred black, just because he made it? If not, would you consider sharing your favorite “go to” recipe with us?**

Well, this is more like it! Hell yes, you bet your butt I'm the Kitchen King. Undisputed. You know what I just got for the kitchen this week? A pasta strainer you snap onto the pot. How the fuck have I been making pasta without this thing?? Or the week before, I got a stuffed burger press. Changed my god damn life.

Sam... okay, we know Sam never really had to cook when we were growing up because A) I did it all B) most of the time there wasn't anything to cook, just heat up and C) anything that couldn't be consumed in a motel room was then ordered from a diner. When he struck out on his own, he either had the dining hall or people like Jess to continue to spoil him. Then there's the fact that Sam can make a salad and call that dinner. Sheesh.

But he does make a great grilled cheese. Even when he chars it. I like the bread darker anyway, it holds up with the cheese better. He always gets the cheese to butter ratio right. Don't know how. Don't wanna know. Then I'd have to make them myself.

We got an Instant Pot from one of Sam's lawyer friends last Christmas. I've used it a few times, mostly to make ribs. I figured I'd be the only one to fiddle with that thing, since I've been the only one to use our slow cooker.

But then Sam surprised me and he learned how to make mushroom risotto in it.

It wasn't charred or crispy or raw or runny. It was... perfect. I'm not sure what he did, but I can't recreate it. That's fine by me anyway, sometimes the King appreciates a meal he doesn't have to cook himself.

My favorite go to, though? You ever watch The Odd Couple? The movie, not the god awful sitcom. Remember the BLT sandwich Felix makes during the poker game? That's my go to. Simple. Easy. Get the bacon crispy, use the green part of the lettuce, use good tomatoes, careful with how you spread the mayo, lightly toast the bread, and trim the crusts. There you go. Perfection.

God dammit, now I'm hungry.

-DW

 

 

**Hey Dean, fellow bad knee bearer here. Wanted to know what you do or what Sam does to help you through those bad days where it hurts to stand, would love some tips! -Gimpy**

 

Gimpy,

You ever been to an asado? Let’s assume no, because let me tell you–people in the States who think they’ve been to one, really haven’t. Nope. You got to find the real thing. And it’s not gonna be in some god damn steakhouse that charges you a million bucks for an overcooked porterhouse.

Okay. So this knee, it has its good days and it has its bad days. Some days I wanna leave the gun, take the cannoli. Other days, I wanna take the gun, the cannoli, and go to the god damn mattresses. I may have forced Sam to watch The Godfather with me a few days ago.

Anyway.

There’s pain patches, hot/cold packs, that weird TENS stuff they hook me up to when I drag my sorry ass into physical therapy, water exercise, regular exercise (no), and plain old sitting down on my side of the couch with my left knee propped up and Sam blowing me until knee, what knee?

But back to the asado.

You make friends with Tito, the dude who changes tires at the shop down on 19th. This is–you buy your tires there, you pay in cash, you tip well, and you bring him a bottle of White Bones Chardonnay. Not beer. Not vodka. Not tequila–that’ll get you tossed the fuck out. White Bones Chardonnay. Find it, buy it, give it to Tito.

Sometimes this knee hurts more than a day, which you probably know happens a lot. It ain’t just an hour or two here or there of pain. So when my knee acts up for more than three days, I tell Sammy to get dressed, we’re going to Tito’s.

This man should be a Michelin star chef. I swear to fuck.

You go south on May, til you hit Dvorak Park, and from there, you just smell your way to heaven. I always bring a bottle of Terroir, a pie, and my own knife. Sam, in his Sam-like way, brings a salad and a bottle of Pepto he thinks I don’t know about, which may or may not be for me.

Look. You get to Tito’s and you realize the reason why anyone with taste buds would need a bottle of Pepto afterwards. That’s how good the food is. You just can’t help but go to fucking town on it all. There’s choripan–grilled chorizo with chimichurri and mayonnaise on a crunchy roll of bread. There’s short ribs. Skirt steak. Salsa criolla. Empanadas. All this fucking awesome, tender meat cooked over the fire and on grills and iron cross spits Tito built himself.

I eat. Like. That’s pretty much it. I eat and drink this lemonade Tito’s husband, Marc, makes fresh every time there’s an asado. I eat and ask for seconds and thirds until Sam reminds me there’s dessert and then I eat that, too. Flan. Chocolate cake with dulce de leche layers and drizzle. Strawberries and cream.

Then I limp my happy ass back home to the bed I share with Sam and just stew in my meat coma for a few hours.

Knee pain? What knee pain?

Then I wake up at two or three in the morning and wake Sam up. Not always because I have heartburn or a nightmare.

One of the best parts of coming home from an asado is the way the smell of the grill and smoke lingers in Sam’s hair. You’d think we’d hate this. Maybe ten, fifteen years ago, yeah, you’d never catch us anywhere that had much to do with fire and smoke.

Sometimes it’s frustrating when someone doesn’t heal at the same time or pace that you do. Especially when that someone is the only other person to have seen a lot of the same shit you have from day one.

But you know who found Tito? Wasn’t me. It was Sam.

He got Baby’s tires changed as a Christmas gift to me our second year here. We talked about Tito’s invitation to go to one of his asados, but never did, until maybe year four. Tito’s got the same, small backyard most of us have. He never turns anyone away. If you’re willing to sit on the porch steps, there’s room.

After almost every asado, I’ll wake Sam up and ask him what he’ll be having.

Last time, he chose different. He tied his hair back, sat up facing away from me, and allowed me the privilege of watching him ride my cock. Like there was no tomorrow. Like it was going out of style. Like we had one job and one job only–to make the headboard crack in half.

It may have cracked in half. And maybe some of the furniture in the rest of the house rattled around like fucking divas. And maybe I slipped on a cock ring halfway through because hey, no shame in that game. And maybe I’ve been reading up on stuff now that I have some of the words and I… let Sam take the wheel.

And maybe I’m kind of curious? Envious? Obsessed with? Sam’s ability to have multiple orgasms without slowing down.

And it's awesome. Like all kinds of awesome. The way lube shines in the dim light of our room that late at night. The way he moans whenever I pull his hair. The slow fast slow deep hard slow sink of Sam's hips as they press against mine. The sight and sound of Sam enjoying it all without overthinking or worrying or getting lost down a dark road.

I know we were talking about knees and steaks in all this, but I do want to make myself clear. Not necessarily to you, Gimpy, but to anyone reading this who’s got questions that don’t always deserve answers. Sam’ll get to answering shit in his own time.

Don’t reduce me or Sam to our genitals. Capiche?

You can go with us to the asado or go read some other stuff that’s more of whatever. The door’s that way.

Alright. Anyway.

I guess you could say that my method of handling this freaking knee is to stay horizontal and be grateful that there’s a warranty on the headboard. Or to sit up at the table and accept second helpings of whatever I want. Maybe some of that is the same thing. Who knows.

-DW

 

(Fuck, still hungry.)

  


**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to katiecurls, vegas, and chan on tumblr for the asks! <3
> 
> i was worried i've lost dean's voice, so i kinda sat on these for a while. then i watched the Somebody Feed Phil episode about Buenos Aires and bam--inspiration. i hope y'all enjoy. :D
> 
> i have a longer TCV installment about sam, from sam's perspective, but it's not yet ready. i'm chipping away at it, taking my time, because it kinda needs to be that way. for now, enjoy Dean attempting to answer things. XD
> 
> comments are love!


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